


Waltz Me to the Grave

by deepdownstarkraves



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dark, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Lucid Dreaming, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 08:44:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16364639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepdownstarkraves/pseuds/deepdownstarkraves
Summary: In which Clara readily accepts the Doctor’s invitation to explore his dreams and sees more than she wants to.





	Waltz Me to the Grave

**Author's Note:**

> Any and all spelling and grammatical errors are my own.

The Doctor is just scribbling down the final formula on the blackboard when Clara bursts through the TARDIS doors, tracking snow and ice from the blizzard outside. 

“It’s freezing out there!” she complains, tightening her hold on her coat. “This had better be good, Doctor, whatever it is. You couldn’t wait until tomorrow for me to see?”

The Doctor smiles at her over his shoulder, asks, “Have I ever disappointed you, Clara?”

“Never. That’s why I’m here.” Clara approaches him, her eyes sweeping over the numbers and symbols covering the entire blackboard, to the bookshelves missing entire rows of tomes. In her arms are two disposable cups of strong coffee. She hands one over to the Doctor who accepts it gratefully. “Been busy?” 

“Just a bit.” The Doctor can’t hold his excitement in any longer. He takes the stairs two at a time down to the console, taking a long, noisy sip of his coffee as he goes and sighs. “Maybe more than just a bit.” 

“Any excuse to impress your teacher?” Clara teases, joining him at the console. “All right. Out with it.” 

The Doctor reaches down for something and Clara jumps back, stumbling over a stack of books once she realises the Doctor is holding up a Dream Crab encased in glass. Then her mind switches to autopilot, remembering all the instructions the Doctor gave her in the past. She’s just starting to think about a brick wall when the Doctor places a hand on her shoulder. 

“Clara, don’t worry. It’s dead,” he says, apologetic. “I should have probably mentioned that first.” 

She looks between him and the case, half-expecting the Dream Crab to break free and attach itself to her face. “How in the world did you get your hands on one?”

The Doctor helps Clara to her feet. “After our last run-in with them, I decided to keep one. For experimentation.”

“Experimentation?” she repeats. 

He holds the case up to the light, carefully examining the misshapen, clawed hands and Clara concludes that it must be really dead. The thing hasn’t moved at all, even when she thinks about it really hard. 

“I was fascinated,” the Doctor starts, “with how the Dream Crab could produce such life-like dreams when it was able to subdue a subject. At first, I thought it was due to the release of high volumes of endorphins. So if there were inconsistencies in the dreamscape, the subject’s mind would just ignore it or be able to rationalise it away. 

“Even though endorphins do contribute, I was able to determine that wasn’t the main culprit. It couldn’t be, given that most subjects don’t even share the same anatomy, let alone hormones. The Dream Crab secretes a certain serum, the same one it uses to control its victims and create the dreamscape. I extracted the serum and combined it with a few of my own chemical compositions and came up with this.” 

The Doctor pulls out a long, slim vial from his jacket, its contents dark and thick like molasses. “All the benefits of lucid dreaming without the negative side effects.” 

“It seems too good to be true,” Clara says, sounding sceptical. She lightly touches her temple. “No headaches?” 

“None. I’ve tried it a couple of times now, was going to go for a third.”

“And you wanted me to…?”

“Join me, of course,” the Doctor replies. “If you want to.”

“Join you? In a dream in your mind?” 

“You’ve never been curious, Clara?” the Doctor inquires, placing the glass case down, brandishing the vial. “You’ve never wanted to know what I’ve got going on in my head?”

“I’d imagine there’d be a lot of things going on in that mind of yours,” Clara answers. “Maybe some things you might not want others to see. Even me.” She worries her bottom lip as she observes the Doctor and really lets her eyes wander. 

He looks awful. Usually, the Doctor, at his best, is so polished, even when he forgets to brush his hair or wears one of his more casual outfits. But today is by far the worst Clara has ever seen him. It’s like he didn’t even try and she highly suspects the trousers the Doctor wears now are actually pajama bottoms, if the star print is anything to go by. He looks down at her and the dark, deep circles under his blue eyes become more prominent when he smiles.

Clara hides her concern with a grin. “Doctor,” she says gently. “When was the last time you slept?” Her hand cups his shoulder. “It’s late, you know. We can always do the dream thing tomorrow.” 

The Doctor shakes his head, smile widening. “It has to be tonight. I don’t think I could wait until morning if I tried. Besides, we’re about to be sleeping anyway. That is, if you’ve decided to come along.” 

Clara considers arguing with the Doctor about this. But he seems so happy about his discovery, and he’s always looking for an audience to impress. She relents with a nod. “Of course I will. You didn’t even need to ask. But as soon as we’re done, you’re going to sleep, all right?”

“Yes, boss,” the Doctor agrees.

She eyes the vial again. “So what do we do?”

He gestures to something behind him. Clara stands on her tip-toes, looking over the Doctor’s shoulder to the armchairs up the stairs, in a less cluttered area of the TARDIS. She lets the Doctor guide her by the shoulder, lets him remove her coat and place it on a metal railing. 

Clara watches him as he rolls up the sleeve of her blouse. “What are we going to see in that head of yours?”

“All sorts of things, I’d say. It changes each time.” The Doctor now has a pair of syringes. He takes the first, slowly filling it with the serum. There’s a slight pinch when the needle pierces her forearm but the sensation quickly washes away as Clara pitches back against the seat. Her head spins, and for a moment, the feeling takes her back to her uni days when she indulged in a bit too much beer. 

The Doctor is sitting beside her now, and it takes so much effort to turn her head to look at him, to keep her eyes open. He’s already used the second syringe on himself. “We should be asleep for the next few minutes, plenty of time.”

Clara wants to ask how a few minutes is enough time but her tongue feels thick and obtrusive. The Doctor leans back and holds out his hand to her. She shakes her head, sluggish. “I’m all right, Doctor,” she slurs. 

The Doctor smiles. It’s a bit sad and she doesn’t understand why. “For me, then.”

Clara takes his hand, threads their fingers together, and drifts off to the sight of the Doctor slumping against a plush cushion. 

_______

The Doctor and Clara are walking briskly down a wide, long carpark, far bigger than she’s ever seen in London. It’s unbearably warm, almost muggy, and the sun bears down against her back and sweaty brow. 

They’re not dressed appropriately for the weather—dark clothing, jumpers, and scarves for England’s colder temperatures—and they stand out sourly against the crowds of people wearing bright dresses and sandals, shorts and t-shirts. 

Clara glances up at the sky but has to turn away as her eyes start to water before she can get a really good look. She glances behind her and the carpark goes on and on, unnaturally so, to a point where she swears it stretches beyond the horizon. She settles for staring ahead, to see where they’re going, and finally notices the wide, looming building with large signs. 

“A shopping plaza?” she asks, bewildered. Clara turns in a full circle, sees the cars, all shapes and sizes and colours, parked side by side in the lot. “This can’t be London, not with such American looking cars. What part of the States is this?”

The Doctor comes to a stop as well. “Boston, I think,” he says, glancing around quickly. 

“Why Boston?”

He half-shrugs. “I’ve probably been here, once or twice before.”

Clara wonders if there is something the Doctor isn’t telling her. But the wind picks up then, cool and pleasant against her sweaty skin, and the thought leaves her just as swiftly as the breeze. “So what’s next?” 

“The dream seems stable enough,” the Doctor murmurs to himself, really taking in his surroundings. “But—” He jumps suddenly and the motion throws off his equilibrium spectacularly. He stumbles forward, nausea twisting his stomach, making his vision come in and out of focus for a long moment. 

He breathes through his mouth and the unpleasant sensation passes just as quickly. The Doctor adjusts his coat, sighing. “This latest concoction of the serum is horrid. I’ll need to fix that.” 

Clara is on her hands and knees, screwing her eyes shut, and willing the world to stop spinning. “Yes,” she pants, “please do.”

The Doctor is beside her, rubbing at her back. “Are you all right?” Clara nods before she stands on shaky legs. “The first time is always the worst,” he says gently. “Could barely move the first time I used the serum.”

By her next breath, the queasiness is gone. Relieved, Clara shrugs off her coat, sighing as she fans her face. “I don’t know if they’ll be a second time for me.” She cocks her head in the direction of the shopping plaza. “Shall we?”

The Doctor nods, drapes his jacket out on an SUV before falling in step with Clara as they quickly cover the length of the carpark. 

“Since we’re lucid dreaming, can’t we create things, move things? Isn’t that a better way of testing the equilibrium?” Clara asks but is confused a moment later, wonders why she would say such a thing. 

But the Doctor is already nodding enthusiastically at her request. He closes his eyes and thinks, tries for a line of vending machines at the front entrance of the mall. But each time he tries, they collapse in a heap of metal and glass and coils. 

Some of the patrons stop to stare at them worriedly. A baby begins to wail. A man, tall and gangly, shoves at Clara’s back as he makes his way inside the shopping plaza. The Doctor doesn’t seem to notice all this, too focused on his failed experiment.

“Hmm,” he frowns. “Why can’t I maintain the structure?”

“You shouldn’t do that,” someone warns them. “You’ll make her angry and then you know what happens after that.”

The Doctor looks to his left and so does Clara, spotting the little girl on her knees, scribbling furiously at the pavement with dark blue chalk. She’s drawing an image of the TARDIS exploding in flames, Donna Noble falling to her death through the open doors. Despite the heat, Clara shivers at the sight. 

“Susan,” the Doctor starts, and there is, Clara notices, the slightest hitch in his voice.

“And you shouldn’t go in there,” Susan says, pointing at the entranceway. She tugs loose strands of brown hair behind her ear, wipes the perspiration from her face, and ends up smearing chalk residue on her cheek and forehead. She looks up at the Doctor with big, dark eyes. “You go in and you won’t come back out.” 

“Why?” Clara asks before she can stop herself. “What’s in there?” 

Susan stares at her, as if just realising the Doctor is not alone. Her eyes are black, depthless, and Clara doesn’t know where the pupils end and the irises begin. She thinks she sees stars, bright and twinkling in the deep, lovely dark of Susan’s eyes, a bleeding, blinding light. Clara starts to feel dizzy again and looks away first. 

“Clara,” the Doctor says but he’s still looking at Susan on bended knee, gently wiping her face down with the sleeve of his shirt. “Whatever we do find, just remember it’s not real.” 

“She’ll eat your hearts,” Susan whispers, deathly serious, before pulling away from the Doctor and going back to her sketch. 

The Doctor gets to his feet and walks inside the mall, Clara quickly following without sparing another glance at Susan. Once inside, Clara lets out a little gasp at what she sees. The Doctor’s attention to detail is phenomenal. From the aroma of lo mein wafting out from the food court to the young teenage girl who strolls by, singing along to a Corinne Bailey Rae song on her iPod, everything is executed so perfectly. 

But there are obvious idiosyncrasies Clara suspects the Doctor was too tempted not to keep out of his dream. Like the Daleks made of Cyberman parts scaling the ceiling, the small replica of the Eiffel Tower rooted at the center of the ground floor, spraying water from its peak, Gallifreyan script written on shop fronts, the glass dome up above them flashing nebulas instead of the midday sun. Thick roots snake along a far wall, leading to a tall peach blossom tree in full bloom. 

Despite the oddities, Clara thinks, if she wants to, she could forget she is dreaming. But she won’t tell the Doctor that. Instead she says, “This place is quite large. What are we looking for?” She watches as a couple sit near the fountain, twining fingers and sharing a soft kiss. 

The Doctor does not answer but directs Clara to the next floor up, walking quickly toward an ice cream parlor serving a long queue of eager customers. “Doctor,” Clara tries again, hoping she doesn’t sound impatient. “If you told me what we’re doing and what’s going on, I think I could help.”

He scans the shop, clearly looking for someone. “You are helping,” he says, distracted.

“How? Every time I ask about something, you—”

“There she is,” the Doctor interrupts, striding inside. Clara follows with a roll of her eyes. Toward the back, there is a lone table located in a far corner. A woman gets to her feet and when she turns, Clara recognises her instantly. 

There was a time, when she and the Doctor were still figuring things out, when she had first agreed to travel with him, she went snooping through the TARDIS database and ended up finding detailed records of each past companion. 

Amy Pond, Clara finds, looks exactly the same. She is beautiful, this tall, lean, long-legged woman with red hair and cheeks that dimple when she smiles, a woman with a belly full of baby. 

“Doctor,” she says, and her accent is thicker, prettier, than Clara imagined in her head. 

“Amelia,” the Doctor beams, readily takes her hands in his. 

“Will you join us?” she asks, stepping to the side. There’s a large sundae on the table and Rose Tyler at the other end, grinning up at the Doctor. 

“Have as much as you like,” Rose says, nodding to the sundae. “I’m not hungry.” But Clara catches Rose’s blond hair sneaking little nibbles when it thinks the Doctor isn’t looking.

“Another time,” he replies, leaning down to kiss her forehead.

Clara is still eyeing Rose’s hair when she spots the dark red stain on Rose’s blouse. For a moment, she thinks it’s just strawberry syrup. Rose follows her gaze, her smile never wavering as her fingers reach up to unfasten the first three buttons. 

Clara draws back, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end, when Rose opens her shirt to reveal a gaping hole in her torso. Something—Clara pictures something ugly and monstrous—has clawed deep into Rose’s chest, left behind bloodied, torn flesh, pink and weeping with fresh blood and pus. Clara feels her nausea come back immediately. 

“I’ve misplaced my heart, you see,” Rose explains with a nod. “Silly me.”

Eyes wide, Clara tries to catch the Doctor’s gaze but he’s still talking with Amy. 

“Where’s Rory?” he inquires. 

Amy bites her lip and says nothing but Rose answers him. “Rory went to the arcade. He never came back.” 

“What are you doing here, Doctor?” Amy asks. “You’ve put yourself in a lot of trouble.”

“There’s something I need to take care of,” the Doctor replies. “Will you help me?”

“I will. I have something for you.” Amy lifts up a large shopping bag by her feet and hands it the Doctor. Inside is a red jumper with white ribbons and small bells sewn in that chime with each movement of his wrist. She grins. “There’s more inside. With lights.” 

“Er,” Clara says. 

The Doctor gives Amy’s hand a squeeze. “Thank you.” He approaches Rose and she wraps her fingers around his wrists, digs her nails into the soft flesh there. 

“I’ll miss you when you’re dead,” Rose sighs, coughing up blood. 

“But won’t you miss me while I’m away?” the Doctor asks with a smile, wiping the red from the corner of her mouth with a napkin. 

“That, too,” Rose replies with a grin. 

“Er,” Clara says again. 

Rose releases him and the Doctor starts toward the exit. Clara is close behind, glancing back just long enough to see Rose sway a bit and slump against her chair as Amy reaches over to close her eyes. 

Clara grabs the Doctor’s shoulder, turns him around, and is startled when his face, his last face, stares right back at her. She reaches up to brush away his fringe. Clara even pokes his chin too, just to make sure. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“What do you mean?” he asks. 

She gives him a bewildered look. “Did you not just see what I saw in there?” Clara demands. “Rose—”

“Clara, remember what I told you before? Remember, I said that none of this,” he gestures wildly around him, “is real. It’s a dream.” He grips her shoulders. “It’s of absolute importance you remember that because if you don’t…it’ll only make things a lot worse.”

Regret, Clara thinks. It’s in the clench of her stomach and in the flutter of her pulse. She wishes she had stayed behind, wishes she had forced the Doctor to save this experiment for another day. Yes, it’s a dream but something feels so very wrong.

“If nothing here is real, what are they warning you about? What is coming? What’s going to be worse?” 

“Things…will get confusing,” the Doctor replies vaguely. 

Clara stares hard at him but his expression gives nothing away. She shrugs his hands off her shoulders. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It won’t be long now.” He points to a nearby bench. “Shall we wait?”

They sit side by side on the small bench, watching the nebulas inch along the glass dome above. The Doctor leans to his side, nearer to Clara. “I miss doing this with you,” he confesses quietly, close to her ear. “Just being with you.” 

He looks at her and she remembers how his eyes used to be, are, green, and she wonders how the Doctor can look different and right and wrong all at once. His smile softens his boyish features. “Clara, my Clara. My impossible girl,” he sing-songs. 

Her heart flutters just a bit at the nickname, and something must show on her face because the Doctor’s smile sharpens into a lopsided smirk. “I guess I haven’t used that name in a long while.”

“So long that I thought you’d forgotten how,” Clara says quietly. She turns to the Doctor, shifting her body in a certain angle so he can’t move away. “Doctor, why did you want me to come here with you?” Clara asks. “What are you not telling me?” When he doesn’t answer, she says, “Didn’t we promise that we would always be honest with each other?”

“I promise I have nothing to hide from you.” The Doctor fiddles with a suspender strap, straightens out his bowtie. “I’ve been trying to figure out something.”

She takes his hand in both of hers. “Then tell me. Whatever it is, we can face it together. We’ll figure it out.” 

His smile grows sad. “I’m afraid this problem isn’t that simple.” The Doctor kisses her knuckles before he lets go and gets to his feet. “It’s time.”

Clara is about to ask him what he means when she realises the shopping mall has grown eerily quiet. She looks around and all the people milling about, the queue for the ice cream parlor, the loud hum of conservation, are gone. She and the Doctor are the last people left. The only sound in the vast mall is the Eiffel Tower streaming water from the ground floor. 

“It’s coming,” the Doctor says, and Clara looks up to see blue eyes boring into hers, a lined mouth tugging down into a severe frown. “Stay behind me.”

Clara does as she’s told, watching as the Doctor reaches into the shopping bag. She expects him to pull one of those garish jumpers but is surprised when he draws out a gun. He reaches in again, retrieving a noticeably smaller pistol. He presses it into her hand. 

“You might need that. I’m a terrible shot,” he says. 

Clara wants to protest but stops short when she notices the Doctor visibly stiffen. The colour has drained from his face, and the hand that holds his gun trembles.

Across from where they stand, the door to an arcade center slowly opens. Pale, unnaturally long fingers inch out, one by one. An arm follows, then a torso, and finally a face. 

“Oh, Doctor,” Missy trills, practically moans, as her too wide smile comes around the edge of the door. She bats her eyelashes. “You came back.”

For a moment, Clara thinks Missy’s eyes are covered in shadow. But as she nears them, she realises they’re nothing more than empty, dark pits with motes of black secreting from them. Clara’s nausea returns tenfold, and she doesn’t know if it’s from the dream’s equilibrium shifting again or because of Missy’s presence. She fumbles with her gun and is finally able to click the safety off. 

“Did you think you were free, Doctor?” Missy murmurs gently. Clara shivers as she watches her expression turn ugly, her mouth twisting to bare sharp teeth, her eye-sockets narrowing. 

Missy shouts angrily, “Did you really think you’d be rid of me?” Her voice carries high above them, and with it comes a hideous, clicking sound. Files and larva start to spill from her mouth. “Don’t you see? It’s just like I’ve told you since we were children. You and I are the same, and we will always have each other.” 

On the ground floor, the Eiffel Tower splits clean in two, crumbles to dust before it reaches the floor. The very mall itself shudders, shifts, and the dome above groans in protest before shattering, showering them in shards of glass. 

The tile beneath Missy’s boots splinter as she walks forward, her heels crushing buzzing flies and maggots as she nears them. Clara staggers back, drawing in a sharp breath. The Doctor grabs her elbow tightly, keeps her from moving any further, and Missy smiles at the exchange, her head sharply tilting, like a bird of prey assessing its food.

“So precious,” she coos, her tone saccharine. Missy reaches for the Doctor with two long fingers. “Come here.”

The ring of a gunshot startles him. Missy hits the floor at an odd angle, her legs twisting beneath her skirts as a pool of blood and brain matter smear the tile and circle her head like a macabre halo. The Doctor turns away from the sight, glances down at Clara who’s slowly, shakily, lowering her gun. 

“So Missy is who you’re afraid of,” Clara says calmly. 

“That thing isn’t Missy,” the Doctor replies solemnly. “And that gun wasn’t meant for that.” 

“Well, she—it—Not-Missy—won’t stay down for long.” Clara keeps her eyes steady on her. “And you need to wake up now, Doctor.” 

“No, we came here together, we leave together.”

Clara shakes head. “You know I can’t go with you. Doctor, I think this is why I was running for so long. Maybe this is the way it was always supposed to be. Maybe the universe needs me to—”

“This is not the universe!” the Doctor bellows, whipping around to face her, suddenly angry. “I made this! I brought you here, I did! I’m the only one who decides what happens here! I don’t have to answer to anyone!”

Clara smiles sadly, brows knitting together in worry. “You’re going to be alone now, Doctor, and you’re very bad at that.”

“Don’t say that,” the Doctor begs, running a hand through his hair. He curls his hands into fists. “You always say that. Every time I come here. Clara, stay with me. Don’t go. Stay with me.”

She pauses for a long moment before she covers the distance between them. She cups his cheeks. “You’re going to be very furious, and you’re going to be very sad. But you are not the only person who’s ever lost someone, Doctor.” Clara levels him with a hard look. “Remember what you told me: this is not real. None of it. So you can always wake up if you try hard enough. 

“Let me be brave.” She gently pushes at his shoulders, in the direction of the ground floor. “Now go, Doctor. You—”

The Doctor never hears the rest of what Clara is about to say. Her back knocks hard against the metal railing several feet away from him, and the force alone breaks her ribs. She slumps to the floor, gasping wetly for air. There’s a knife, long and serrated, protruding from her chest, forcing blood from her in streams. Clara exhales a pained, shaky breath as her fingers clamber around the handle, trying to yank it out. But her grip is too weak and her hands tremble violently. Blood rushes from her mouth and Clara makes a strangled noise, low and soft, before she shudders and grows still. 

The Doctor can’t move. A weight as heavy as lead settles in his limbs, paralyses him. His eyes grow warm as his vision blurs. “Clara?” he whispers. 

Not-Missy is up on her feet, her arm arched and extended in Clara’s direction. She drops her hand, dusts her skirts, and gives Clara’s corpse a very disdainful look, her false jovial mood gone and replaced with cold fury. 

“How rude,” Not-Missy simpers. “Interrupting someone like that was very uncalled for.”

The Doctor chokes on his breath and is finally able to force his feet forward. He drops his own gun, trembles as he gathers Clara in his arms, and presses his forehead to hers. “You didn’t need to kill her,” he sobs, tears streaming down his face. He gasps. “This isn’t real. This isn’t real. Not my Clara. Not my Clara.”

Not-Missy is beside him in an instant, and the clicking, hissing noise drowns out everything else. “This is very real. I didn’t kill her, Doctor,” she murmurs against his ear. “You did that. You had a duty of care and you failed. Every. Single. Time. With Rose and Donna and Amy. Even with little Susan.” 

The Doctor nods, links his fingers with Clara’s cold, stiff ones. “You’re right.” He nods again. “You’re right about everything. I knew it. I knew Clara was getting reckless and I didn’t stop her. If-If I had known…what she would do for Rigsy—” He feels flies crawling under his clothes, buzzing in his ears, and he buries his face against Clara’s shoulder to block out the sound. The taste of copper and salt spread on his tongue. 

“Doctor, no matter what you do, no matter how much you try, she still won’t be there. Clara Oswald will still be dead.” 

The Doctor feels more than hears the ground shaking, the shopping plaza collapsing around them, and the remains of the ceiling buckling and caving in. He glances up and sees fire streak across the starry sky, hears the Daleks shriek in rage as they approach, feels intense heat from the lava bubbling up from the cracks in the floor.

He looks at Not-Missy, at the sunken pits of her eyes. “What should I do?” 

Her long, long fingers graze his chin, wipe away his tears. “Stay here with me,” Not-Missy says. “Don’t you see? We have forever here, Doctor. Down here, you’ll have forever to forgive yourself.”

Not-Missy reaches for him and the Doctor just manages to snatch up the gun in Clara’s grip and bash the muzzle against Not-Missy’s temple. Her mouth opens impossibly wide and a wave of locusts and files swarm him, blinding him for a moment. When he presses the barrel to his head, it’s still warm.

“It’s not real. It’s not real,” the Doctor says in a rush. Even as he trembles with fear, he repeats it over and over as Not-Missy lets loose an inhuman howl and lunges for him. He shuts his eyes and holds Clara close. His finger catches the trigger and he starts to pull. “It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not—”

_______

The Doctor wakes with a startled gasp, eyes going to the sky as he takes great gulps of air. Clara is beside him, circling an arm around his shoulders, and bringing him into a sitting position. She rubs his back as he goes into a coughing fit. 

“Doctor, are you all right?” she asks, concerned. “Bad dream?” 

“I—” The Doctor stops short, and for a moment, he doesn’t know how to answer her. He tries anyway. “I don’t know. Maybe. The more I try to think about it, the more I draw a blank.” But beneath his confusion, there is an underlying anger and sadness he doesn’t understand. He can’t put it into words.

Clara strokes his hand soothingly. “Well, maybe it’s for the best. Bad dreams should always be forgotten, yeah?”

The Doctor grips her palm and brings their fingers to his temple. There is a pain there, dull and throbbing, but Clara leans against him, resting her face on his shoulder and angling her head up to press a peck to his cheek. She giggles at his bewildered but pleased expression. 

“What was that for?” the Doctor asks. “Are you about to tell me some bad news?”

“Does there need to be a reason?” Clara laughs. She looks toward the horizon. “Would you look at that sunset.”

The Doctor follows her gaze, marvels at the pink sky, the orange-red glow of the setting sun, and the lush, green hills that stretch to the horizon. Soon enough, the sky will be perfect for stargazing. 

“You can’t deny the view,” he agrees. 

“Do you mind if we stay here a little longer? Just until the sun sets?” 

The Doctor is about answer but cuts himself off. The throbbing in his temple is sharp now, incessant, and he shakes his head, trying to rid himself of it. Clara notices.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” she asks. “Is old age finally catching up with you now?”

The Doctor smiles at her teasing, looking down at her. “I’ve got you. Why wouldn’t I be all right?” 

Clara’s smile is radiant, broad enough to the show her dimples, and the Doctor feels his hearts race at the sight. She settles against his shoulder again and the Doctor gently rests his chin on top of her head. He holds her hand and Clara answers by lacing their fingers together. 

“As soon as the sun sets,” the Doctor says into her hair, “I’ll be fine.”

**Author's Note:**

> Just to be clear, there is a Dream Crab attached to the Doctor and he is slowly dying. I’d imagine, after Clara died in Face the Raven and if there was no Heaven Sent, he got his hands on what he thought was a dead Dream Crab, thinking he could experiment on it, dream about her, and it unfortunately led to this. 
> 
> His mind, in the form of Clara, Susan, Amy, and Rose, keep trying to warn him/defend him. There are a number of inconsistencies and weird bits, just my way of trying to emphasize how dreams/nightmares are always a little off and sometimes unsettling. Does the Doctor eventually wake up? Does he die? I’ll leave it up to you. Thanks for reading! Comments are always appreciated.


End file.
